British Theatre Guide review of IKR

I Killed Rasputin

Prolific writer-comedian Richard Herring has penned a fascinating,
serious cum tongue-in-cheek take on the killing of charlatan mystic
Rasputin by a conspiracy of aristocrats in prince Yusupov’s palace in St
Petersburg as imperial Russia is sliding down the pan towards
revolution.

A comical-historical-tragical farce, a sketch in the Blackadder vein, a bit of Spike Milligan absurdism and pithy insight—I Killed Rasputin held my undivided attention throughout its pacy eighty minutes, and tickled my fancy.

As did Nichola McAuliffe’s cross between Robert Helpmann and Quentin
Crisp, eccentric Yusupov, Eileen Nicholas playing it beautifully
straight (‘it is important to keep one’s muff in good condition’) as his
wife princess Irina, Justin Edwards’s burly Rasputin, Joseph Chance’s
American Doubting Thomas journalist EM Halliday and servants Stephen
Leask and Joanna Griffin more bonkers than their masters. Oh, and we
mustn’t forget the ‘savage’ puppet dog.

Funny and clever—what more do you want? The truth? Ah, well, that’s
another story. As my dear ma, raised in the former Soviet Union, always
says, "if it weren’t all lies it would be the truth."

And what is the truth about the killing of Rasputin? A legend has
grown of his invincibility, his hypnotic powers, his mystical hold on
the Russian royal family, his priapism and lechery.

What really happened in prince Yusupov’s palace in December 1916? Who
really did away with Rasputin? Was it effete Yusupov, as he claims and
has written in several tomes? Was it his Oxford chum Oswald Rayner? Was
it good shot Grand Duke Dmitry?

In 1967, Halliday (‘Vietnam will be over in a week or two’)
interviews 80-year-old Felix Yusupov, formerly the richest man in all of
Russia—richer than the Romanovs, ‘assassin’ of the ‘Mad Monk’—in the
hope of filling in a story pitted with more holes than a colander.

Two different cultures meet, and this is where many of the
irresistible jokes lie: ’we were living the American dream’, says impish
Yusupov when questioned about his obscene wealth.

How can you trust an oddball bisexual Russian, who is plastered in
make-up and likes to dress in women’s clothes? Or says he used to dress
as a Gorky tramp to see what life was like for the down and outs. How do
you check out oral history?

Halliday has come prepared, and Herring has done his homework—you’ll
learn some interesting facts along the way. Stalin and Hitler tried to
tempt Yusupov into their spheres (lots of dumb show and prancing behind
gauze panels).

Haunted by Grishka Rasputin ("why won’t you die" bookends the play),
Yusupov is sticking to his story, but what if there is more than meets
the eye? Was the prince under Grishka’s sexual spell, as were the
tsarina and the ladies of the royal court? Was he the bait? After all,
Edward VII once gave him the once over.

A film is to open in Cannes—this is true—I Killed Rasputin (J'ai tué Raspoutine), a French-Italian film directed by Robert Hossein, script approved by Yusupov himself, did open the 1967 Cannes Film Festival.

But, a 1932 MGM film, Rasputin and The Empress, starring the
three Barrymore siblings, prompted a historical lawsuit by Felix and
Irina Yusupov for defamation, and the now familiar disclaimer "Any
similarity to persons dead or living is entirely coincidental" is
entirely due to their successful challenge. Not many people know that.

Will Yusupov in his dotage give up the secret or take it to his
grave? There are hints and winks and nudges, but we’re none the wiser.
"I don't know of an instant in modern history where so many reputable as
well as disreputable historians have solemnly repeated such a patently
improbable story as if it were gospel" (EM Halliday).

It is always in these interstices that comedy germinates and grows,
and Herring can’t resist them, filling them with quick throwaway
lines—without detracting from the essential story.

And if you’re laughing you’re listening, and remembering. A bit of
wisecracking humour sure does help the history lesson go down—the end of
Rasputin and the end of the three-hundred-year Romanov dynasty.

Production values are high for a fringe show—the acting is deadpan
good, Stephanie Williams’s set design is elegant and neat with several
doors for quick costume change exits, some of the cast multi-tasking,
and Hannah Banister directs at a jaunty tempo.

And Lermontov’s Romantic poem Alone I Go Out On The Road set
to guitar music establishes the nostalgic tone. Ah, that guitar that
Yusupov brought all the way from Russia, the same guitar that charmed
Rasputin. Hmm.